nothing left to lose
by AMiserableLove
Summary: She's got nothing. In a world that's crumbling down around her, Emma Swan has very little faith in anything anymore, least of all the human-race. Death, destruction, and the loss of everyone she holds dear, she often finds herself questioning her bleak and depressing existence in a post apocalyptic era, nearly ready to lose all hope completely... *Captain Swan—The Walking Dead AU*


_**Anonymous tumblr prompt:**_ _Captain Swan "The Walking Dead" AU. _

_**A/N:** _**Basically Storybrooke and most things OUAT don't exist —no curse, no magic, etc, etc. I've pretty much picked Emma and Killian up and plopped 'em right in the middle of the zombie apocalypse. So yeah guys this is the undead walking, end of the world hurtles, quite a bit of angst and so unbelievably AU. Also, I'm writing this from the perspective of someone who "gets" the whole TWD universe…might help to be familiar with the show although I don't think it is absolutely necessary…**

**Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT or TWD.**

**Please review! :)**

* * *

_Hope…_

It's something she hasn't felt in ages.

Something she gave up on a long time ago.

But as they come across the little cabin just before dusk, she can't help but wonder at the faint and warm stirrings that begin to blossom within her.

Sweat trickling down her neck, eyes blurred from both lack of sleep and too much sun, Emma wipes at her damp forehead with the back of her arm, trying not to focus on the throbbing ache in her head and the growing hunger in her belly that shoots dull and nagging pain throughout her body, settling heavy in her limbs and slowing her already languid movements. Staring hard at the small house that seems to have appeared out of nowhere in the thick New England forest, she tries to push down the tiny flicker of misplaced optimism that threatens to spark to life deep inside of her—the giddy thought of sleeping indoors for a change worming its way into her brain. Instead she focuses on both the fear and apprehension that constantly gnaws at her gut, knowing the latter emotions are more likely to keep her alive.

_Hope…_

It's a disturbing and foreign feeling.

And it gets you absolutely nowhere in the goddamned zombie apocalypse.

Except…

For maybe dead.

And she blinks back the angry threat of tears that burns and pricks at her eyes as images of her son, _Henry,_ limp and and pale, flash into her head—his death a jarring reminder of what happens to the good and gentle and _hopeful_ in a world that's gone to shit.

_Two years._

It's been two years since the disease, curse, _whatever_ struck. Two years since the dead had risen and began to roam. Two years since her son had died, bitten before she could get to him in time. Two years since she had been forced to kill him again, knowing the damning and aimless fate of the walkers was something he wouldn't have wanted—her hand flexing a little at the memory of driving a knife through his cold and lifeless skull.

Two years…

And she still feels it.

Every-fucking-day she feels it, the unrelenting grief heavy in her heart.

Sometimes she wonders what the point is…continuing on like this.

This isn't living.

It's merely surviving.

"Well then…let's get to it."

His voice, soft and lilting, makes her jump a little as it drifts to her ears; and turning her head slightly she watches from the corner of her eye as Killian moves forward suddenly, scattering her bleak and depressing thoughts; a part of her realizing with some surprise that she had forgotten for a moment that he was even there, another part of her disgusted with herself for the slip. Coming to stand next to her, vibrant blue eyes focused on the house in front of them, one hand curled around the gun at his hip, the other gripping a knife tightly—knuckles white with the effort— he squints a little as he studies the house, shaggy dark hair clinging to the back of his neck and dripping with sweat, chest heaving and breathing labored with his own obvious exhaustion.

"Could have food…supplies…looks fairly empty." he notes it quietly, his tone somewhat curious; and turning his head to look at her, he raises a questioning brow, the corner of his mouth twitching up into his signature smirk.

And how he smiles so easily when the world is crumbling down around them is still beyond her.

"Might not be."

He doesn't say anything at that. Dark brow arching further up onto his forehead, he simply waits for her to speak again, holding her stare with quiet and unnerving patience.

"Could be swarming with walkers…or worse…too hard to tell from here." she remarks softly, _insistently_, gaze shifting back to the cabin and searching for any sign of movement from behind the darkened windows.

The undead aren't the only threat that they need to be wary of these days.

Fear, desperation, and greed running rampant, _people—_alive and breathing and thinking_ human beings—_can be just as dangerous as a group of snarling and hungry mindless biters.

"There's only one way to find out now isn't there darling."

"You wanna take that risk?"

"Do you wanna spend another night starved and chilled and sleeping under the stars?"

Tilting her head to the side, she sighs softly,_ resignedly_, hoisting her backpack up a little before nodding in silent agreement as they both move towards the house together; the tiny flame of hope threatening to roar to life again as she takes in the sight of the over-sized and welcoming front porch—a large rocking chair tucked into the corner, a wooden porch-swing swaying gently in the too light breeze.

It's been so so long since she's experienced any kind of indulgence—their makeshift beds of scattered leaves and plastic tarps and meager meals of rationed beef jerky and long expired diet soda taking its toll on her now too thin body.

She can't help but imagine what it would be like to find a few cans of edible food, to sleep on a soft and cushioned bed again—her eyes sweeping the property, its heavy line of trees and unusual location offering to provide protection from the aimless roamers…both undead and alive alike.

And she has to consciously squash the hot burst of eager expectation that stubbornly makes itself known once more, silently blaming the dangerous feeling on the hunger and fatigue that claws and grips at her weak and tired body.

"Once we clear it…we stay just—just for the night." her voice lacks any real conviction, and she ignores the whispers in her head that immediately question her words, curious about her relentless need to keep moving, never resting, always driving on towards some unknown and unachievable goal.

Killian doesn't answer her, not really, merely hums low in his throat and moves up the creaky old stairs, knife raised and ready to strike, shoulders stiff with tension as he opens the front door slowly. And watching him as he purposely puts himself in front of her, she can't help but think that it's odd…the way the end of the world throws people together so unceremoniously.

A little over six months ago she was a loner, leaving one group only to find herself swept up in another, until she had eventually ended up completely on her own and doing a pretty decent job in staying alive.

A chance stop at a gas station had abruptly changed all of that.

Rummaging around the broken glass and overturned shelves, looking for anything that could be of use, she had quite literally stumbled across Killian as he had ducked into the small convenient store for quick shelter—a slight scuffle and a few choice words exchanged, and before she could completely assess the situation they had found themselves locked in a tense stand-off, weapons drawn and stubborn wills clashing.

It had only lasted minutes but had felt more like hours, and she had just been working up the courage to kill him—the good ones were all dead anyway and his blue eyes were too bright, too knowing, too hungry for her liking—when the telltale sounds of low groaning and shuffling feet had shifted both of their attentions.

A fairly large herd of walkers closing in on them and a few impulsive acts of heroism later (she hadn't asked him to save her from the damned things and he claimed he couldn't bear to leave a damsel in distress) and they had found themselves on the road together, begrudgingly agreeing to a tentative partnership.

They couldn't be more different though.

He talks too much and she likes the silence just fine.

He handles a knife, sword, whatever blade he can get his hands on with cool efficiency and she keeps her guns close, feeling anxious and irritated whenever she runs low on bullets.

He barely bats an eye with each walker he takes out, thrilling in the final kill; and the chipped skull and brain matter still makes her stomach turn—her blood running cold and bile rising in her throat.

And, perhaps, slightly more irritating but no less obvious…

He thinks there's more to life than just finding their next edible meal and a safe place to sleep for the night—considering the fact that there might be more people out there like them, people who just want to live quietly, _peacefully,_ and survive this thing, often quipping about how maybe they'll find a group to fall in with, to make their _home._

She simply scoffs at the idea, rolling her eyes at the very notion.

It's idiotic, merely a fairytale in a dark and cold world where wishful thinking gets you nowhere.

Truth be told, she doesn't know how he remains so unwaveringly optimistic—chuckling at her pessimism and ignoring her petulance. It's obvious this life has taken its toll on him. Even though he tries his hardest to hide it from her—keeping fairly tight-lipped about his life before the outbreak—she can sense his pain, can nearly feel it. She sees the shadows in his eyes, the deep-rooted anguish and the long drawn-out suffering. She knows he's lost people. Sometimes when she's taking watch in the dead of night, she listens to him as he moans low in his sleep, the names _Milah and Liam_ echoing in the empty silence.

The grief is there.

Yet, even so, he doesn't hesitate to look at her—blue eyes intense and searching—as if she's his light in the darkness, his very reason for continuing on, quietly telling her, _reminding her,_ that there's more out there…

More to live for.

It's almost as annoying as it is unnerving.

Still, even with all their differences piling high and so very glaringly obvious—his ability to get under her skin, to make her crazy, to question why she's even wandering around the desolate New England landscape with him by her side—she can't say she doesn't appreciate his presence.

After all, six months ago she was a loner, a drifter.

And now…

Watching as he doesn't even so much as blink when a growling and grunting figure comes stumbling towards them as they make their way through the darkened and musty kitchen, she flinches only a little when he moves forward suddenly, effectively dropping the walker with a clean stab through the eye-socket, surging forward to kill the next one that shuffles in after it until they're left standing in eerie silence, the decaying pair of bodies strewn at his feet, blood pooling around them slowly. Swallowing over the lump in her throat and shaking off the rush of adrenaline that races through her veins as he glances back at her with a quick tilt of his lips—eyes alight with unclear emotion—she watches as he wordlessly gestures over her head to the slightly ajar pantry door behind her, her mouth dropping open as she takes in the sight of rows upon rows of dusty and dirty cans of untouched food and jugs of seemingly clean water.

_Now_ she wonders how the hell she survived so long without him in the first place.

And she can't help the all too rare grin she shoots him, surprising them both when it trembles and quivers; an odd feeling of elation bubbling up inside of her as her small smile quickly turns into a relieved and nearly joyful laugh, the simple promise of a good meal and the possibility of a roof to sleep under finally setting in and weakening her barriers while dimming her always present doubts.

Suddenly she feels freer than she's felt in days, weeks, _months._

And later, after the rest of the house is cleared, her hunger sated and her skin cleaned of the heavy layer of grime that had coated her body, she lays in the cabin's large and creaky bed, feeling safer and warmer than she's felt in what seems like a lifetime—their alarm system of empty cans and noisy metals strung up around the house, the windows boarded up tight and the back and side doors locked securely.

And when the bed dips and his lips graze her bare shoulder tenderly, she doesn't tense or reach for her gun and threaten his life, doesn't consider pushing him away as his fingers skim the expanse of her stomach before skirting lower, leaving a hot trail of burning need in their wake—this isn't the first time they've slept together and most likely won't be the last. But she knows, even as she tries to deny it, that_ this _is different from the desperate kisses they've shared while pressed up into each other on the side of some abandoned building or the quick fuck or two they've had against a tree, panting and rutting out their frustrations and hopelessness. This isn't merely a means to release when the world's got them both coiled up tight and brimming with pent-up anger and unrelenting despair.

It's more.

And she wants to hate him for it. She never was supposed to rely on him, certainly wasn't supposed to fall for him.

Love.

Hope.

There's no room for any of it.

Not when she's convinced herself that she's closed herself off to feeling anything, not when tomorrow or the next day, or the day after that might be their last.

Not when he might be ripped away from her like everything, _everyone_, else.

Not when she knows she couldn't bear it…

Losing him.

_Damn him._

_Damn, damn, damn him._

She wants to fight it, has been fighting it for what seems like forever now…

But she's tired and warm and he's familiar and safe and the words he's whispering into her skin—dangerous, dangerous, words—are suddenly forcing her to rethink the empty and lonely existence she's been clinging onto for so very, very long.

Resigned, turning to him—welcoming him, needing him—Emma tilts her chin up just so, locking her gaze with vivid and calming blue as his lips hover over hers and his hands still their slow and steady movements. And closing her eyes, blocking out the roar of panicked voices in her head, she calmly, perhaps_ too calmly,_ accepts the fact that maybe, just for one night, she'll find brief solace in the solid comfort of his arms.

Even though tomorrow their world will be just as desperate and doomed and hopeless as ever…

Tonight she'll let him love her.

And maybe, with no one but the voices in her head and the ghosts of the undead to judge her, she'll even allow herself to love him back…

* * *

**Review?**


End file.
